pruclearwar: (pru.clear.warfare)

Evangeline walked by the ruins of her great-great-great-great-grandfather's home almost every day the year she turned ten. At the time, though, she had little idea what a great-grandfather was, nor that she'd ever had one and that hers in particular had been one of the most famous pirates in the history of pirates and had once owned the entire island on which she and her family now lived. All she knew then was that she was hot and miserable, hated walking, and missed her old town where the air was usually cool and her old school where no-one laughed at the way she made her vowels.

pruclearwar: (pru.clear.warfare)
whenever I feel a bit down lately.

to say they are flourishing is an understatement.

it's miraculous, in that I was born with a black thumb. it's genetic. I inherited from my mother, who inherited it from her mother, just like my essential tremor and my various and varied neuroses.

but I look at my plants and I marvel. especially when I recall that all these plants I now own came to me through death.

the death of a co-worker. a neighbour. a friend.

he was older, but not old enough. he walked with a hitch in his stride, but always with shoulders back and head high. we talked music, and books, and anachronism, and we drank until we couldn't, then a few more.

when he died, his family gave me all his houseplants.

what was I supposed to do with houseplants? I was barely home. I worked all the time and slept (some) of the time. I ignored them until they were brown and brittle. then I'd water them a little and they'd have a quick growth, then go brown and brittle again.

but soon enough, I started actually caring for them. I watered them (almost) regularly. I fertilised them once or twice.

now my apartment is full of plants. half a dozen bushy pothos (all from one), some succulents.

the most surprising, though, was the dieffenbachia. because it was dead when it came to me. one little leaf, bent over and trailing the ground. now it's taken over my bath room. I can't figure how to prune it and I'm afraid of being struck dumb. I fear it wants my soul.

long story short, i'm sad and I want a garden so i'm making a jungle in my apartment.

Waking Up

Jun. 24th, 2014 12:01 pm
pruclearwar: (pru.clear.warfare)
at the normative equivalent of four a.m. usually precipitates some kind of mental/emotional crisis for me.

what can I say? I'm predictable like that.

this morning's crisis was brought about by my sheer ineptitude, re: being an adult.

thirty-three this year and still haven't been able to crack into that zen-like state of personal/professional balance i see so many do with such seeming ease. and I say this after returning from a nine day vacation. what even is my life that i complain about anything after such a long holiday?

i admit that i am a whinging whinger who whinges, but--

this is what i do at four a.m., after v little sleep, whilst facing a steaming pile of obligations, and feeling run-down because I don't eat right, or exercise enough.

*grumble, grumble, grumble*

pruclearwar: (Default)
at thirty to be thinking about what one wants to be when one grows up, but that's been pretty much all that has occupied my mind since the beginning of this year.

when i was eleven i wanted to be a marine biologist. at fourteen, an english teacher. by seventeen, i wanted to be a librarian.

i never managed any of those things. i never felt good enough, or smart enough, to be those things. so i never tried. you see, i have no focus. i'm easily distracted, moving from pursuit to pursuit. so now...

now i'm good at a lot of different things, but i still don't feel good enough at any one thing to be successful at it.

i feel sometimes that i've lived my whole life just riding along with the current, and sometimes... sometimes instead of rowing, i poke holes in my own boat.

i'm poking holes right now. and i still can't figure out why.
pruclearwar: (
about thirty minutes since you got in your truck and drove away (this time maybe for good, for real, for keeps). i'm back in my apartment, staring at the pile of half-read books by my bed.

i remember a conversation we had once. you said i'd find things (you said books, but we both know you meant life) easier if i just focused on one thing at a time.

i'm not ready to admit that you might be right.


pruclearwar: (Default)

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